this is,
half a poem.
normally, unpunctuated, I am late, but today, I am early.
waiting for nothing to happen, again and over again, while the wind tugs at the tulip poplars, their
face sized leaves slowly being eaten by the ground.
the red clay sticks to my feet, and the little quartzes, rounded by countless glaciers and good ole
grandfather/mother time, are frozen in the shade.
see?
Oi told you it was half a poem.
poetry and shorts on flow states of various kinds, occasional explorations into clutch states, ebbing.
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